Defector Program
by cepaul518
Summary: Issues dealing with Smith's stint of malevolence and his own humanity (what? he has humanity? GASP). Takes place between during Reloaded and Revolutions. My first Matrix fanfic (Morithil inspired me!).
1. Rogue Program

**Disclaimer**: Unfortunately, I don't own The Matrix. I don't own (ex)Agent Smith, either (damn). I wish I did, but he belongs to Warner Brothers and the Wachowski Brothers.

** Chapter 1: Rogue Program**

The ex-agent bared his teeth in frustration. Rain pelted down around him in torrents, but it was not a concern to him. He had more important issues to be troubled with. His knuckles cracked as he slowly balled his dripping fists.  Three agents of the system stood before him, looming like distant kin and blocking his path into an abandoned brick building. One of them touched his earpiece, listening intently. He lowered his hand slowly and spoke in a stoic voice.  "The rogue program must be eliminated."  The others tilted their heads in confirmation, and the triad began to move towards Smith. He stood steadfast and statuesque, his feet planted firmly and his broad shoulders tensed.  His teeth ground together in anticipation.  It was certain in his mind, as clear as one of the disgustingly brilliant counterfeit sunny days that he would win this. A smirk formed across his thin lips, the subtle glee in his eyes hidden by dark rain-streaked sunglasses.

He wasn't entirely sure why, but when the Anderson had destroyed him, he had become infinitely improved. After he had been reassembled, that is. His program had been scrambled and scattered, but he was like a puzzle that the operating system had automatically put back together. It was designed to reassemble agent code. But it had made a mistake, for he was somehow no longer an agent.  In addition to his reassembly came newfound abilities. He wasn't certain if he ever had the power to copy himself as an agent, but he sure as hell did now. It was quite simple, really. All he had to do was interface with another program or virtual projections of a human, fuse his code to theirs, then corrupt anything that wasn't his. 

And that is exactly what he was planning to do with the approaching agents. They had been his colleagues during his "previous life," but now they were as inferior and insignificant as humans. He was ten times stronger than they were. He was faster.and more deadly. 

The agents stopped about three yards away and abruptly drew their pistols.

"Well, well, well. Agents Brown, Jones, and Brooks," Smith said wryly. "How nice to see you again."

"Your files have become corrupt," Brown replied, ignoring Smith's feigned politeness. "You must be eliminated from the system."

"And how," Smith said silkily, "might you expect to accomplish that, gentlemen?" He began to casually examine his fingernails.  Three pistol hammers clicked in response. Smith had been expecting this. The agents fired their weapons. As if in slow motion, Smith watched the bullets exit the gun barrels and then disrupt the air around them as they broke the sound barrier. With inhuman speed, he easily dodged the tiny, slowly twisting missiles.  In unison, the agents lowered their weapons.  They could see that he had retained their abilities. He would be difficult to purge from the system. It would have to be done manually.  

The nearest agent dove for the rogue program. Smith deflected him easily with a blow to the side of the head. Jones stumbled back, and together with Brooks and Brown, they advanced on Smith again. They sprang into action, ruthlessly delivering a series of artistic punches and kicks.  Smith matched them move for move, systematically blocking and retaliating. Had any normal human being been standing in that alleyway, they would have witnessed a spectacular sight-four well-groomed men dressed in business suits, battling to the death in a manner that was completely incomprehensible. The three agents spun in the air as the rogue program beat them mercilessly back. 

The third agent was now in a state of rage, and flung himself at Smith, only to be met with Smith's hand being plunged into his midsection. The other agents halted their attack, confused as to what was transgressing. Their hesitation was their downfall.  Agent Brown looked down to see what appeared to be Smith's hand lodged in his chest. Enraged, he tried to lash out, but found he couldn't move. A black oily material began to consume him.  In a matter of moments, Smith had copied himself. His twin stood where Agent Brown had once been.  The copy looked at the original Smith, and a furtive sneer crossed his face. The two slowly turned their gazes back to the last two agents.

Ten minutes later, four Smiths smugly stood in the alleyway, apparently suffering from boredom.


	2. Realities and Realizations

Chapter 2: Realities and Realizations

                Smith had been designed to be an enforcement program.  And enforce is what he had done.  He followed his strict programming along its instructed parameters.  He was nothing less than an efficient killing machine.

                Each agent had been produced from a default model.  However, since they were sentient artificial intelligence, they had the ability to adapt, learn, and develop a personality.  As an agent, Smith had grown beyond that.  He acquired hate, rage, and contempt.  Out of that, spite…and even a malevolent sense of humor.

                But to his surprise, he had also developed the ability to love.  He _loved_ to torture rebels.  He _loved_ defeating agents that opposed him.  He_ loved _the look of surprise when he had revealed himself to Anderson, showing that he existed again, in a better, more advanced form.  And he _loved _the stricken look on Anderson's face when hundreds of other Smiths came flooding to greet him…to destroy and obliterate him.

                Smith admitted he gained a certain satisfaction from another being's pain and torment.  He wasn't entirely sure why, but he knew it had something to do with the way he was originally programmed.  However, his destruction by that damned human had created a drastic change in him.  He needed to find out why.

He _needed_ to.

His existence within the Matrix still bothered the hell out of him.  He felt trapped, suffocated by it.  He was safe here, however.  As long as he didn't try to pass through the firewalls into the mainframe's operating system, he would remain almost undetectable.  He would run across other agents, certainly, but he was confident that they would not be an issue.

He couldn't afford to pass into another reality.  He had to remain in this one, no matter how he detested it.  He was no longer integrated to the system.  It was as though he were a tiny grain of sand on a beach…the mainframe was aware of his presence, but did not seem to notice.  He went undetected except for during agent encounters, and it seemed that it wasn't a large priority of the mainframe's to have him removed.  Then again, there were bigger fish to fry.  Like Thomas Anderson.

It was on one of his random link-ups to the network that Smith had discovered a piece of information.  A very interesting piece of information indeed.  He "overheard" what seemed to be a frantic transmission from a sentinel that was being distributed to all interested parties.  The encrypted transmission repeated itself over and over again.

Thomas A. Anderson has been disabled.  Thomas A. Anderson has been disabled.  Thomas A. Anderson has been disabled.

A suppressed excitement washed over Smith.  His mouth twitched and gradually pulled back into a malicious grin.

Thomas A. Anderson has been disabled.


	3. The Origin of the Code

**Chapter 3: The Origin of the Code**

When computers were first introduced to the world, their language was ridiculously simple.  Binary code was transmitted in a series of digital bits.  They were either a one or a zero.  They had an electrical charge or none at all.  On or off.  Alive or dead.

The quantity and patterns in which the bits were transmitted determined the final product.  A particular pattern of ones and zeroes might give you a representation of a photograph, while another combination might give you the text of an e-mail.  

Binary code was ideal for a two-dimensional world.  It was entirely inefficient for a three-dimensional world.  There was merely too much information to interpret.  Binary was simply too slow and tedious.

One of the first things the machines did when creating the Matrix was develop a new code standard, something drastically more efficient than binary, hexadecimal, or any other man made computer code.  This new code had the ability for three-dimensional states to be translated and transmitted faster and more accurately.  More information could be imprinted onto a single bit.

Smith at one time had admitted to the genius of it all.  But the work of art that the Matrix was had soon become his prison.  He didn't know how others of his kind could stand it.  Then again, none of them even experienced the emotional characteristics that he had begun to exhibit back when Thomas Anderson had first become an issue. 

The Matrix had become completely overbearing.  He was almost frantic in the manner that he wanted out.  To him, it was imperative for him to leave.

 With an unbelievable stroke of luck, he did manage to find a way out.


	4. Revelation

Chapter 4: Revelation

                The machines had unfortunately intercepted the transmission.  In the excitement of Neo's destruction of the sentinels in the real world, someone had not paid close attention to detail when sending the news back to Zion.  The machines now knew.  They broadcasted it out across multiple secure channels to inform their peers.  The ones most interested in this piece of information were, of course, the agents.  They would have a field day without needing the pesky caution that was involved when Neo was in the vicinity.

                Smith couldn't be happier about the situation.  It was a good half an hour after he heard he news before the smile fell from his face.  Anderson had been disabled….but _he_ hadn't been the one to do it.  _He_ hadn't been the one to take Anderson's purpose away.

                There was one thing that Smith cared about above all—a sense of purpose.  He needed a purpose.  Anderson had tried to take that away.  It had become personal.

                Personal vendettas were things unknown to other sentient programs.  They had no concept of vengeance.  But Smith did.  He knew it and felt it as strongly as any human might.  In fact, the human body that the copy had taken over was now lying a mere two feet away from Neo, equally as comatose…or perhaps not. 

                In spite of all obvious signs, Smith still had not noticed that he was experiencing the symptoms of a virus.

*****

                Trinity stood beside Neo's bed aboard the _Hammer_ and gazed at him.  He looked so innocent.  She had always thought him innocent and vulnerable anyway, in the real world.  In the Matrix, he was deadly and anything _but_ vulnerable.  She had seen him destroy those sentinels on a whim.  In the real world.  And that scared the hell out of her.

                She looked up to read the monitors displaying his vital signs.  Everything was normal.  It was as though he was merely in a deep sleep that he couldn't wake from.

                Morpheus appeared beside her.  "How is he?"

                "Same as usual," she replied quietly.  She reached out and touched Neo's face softly, as though she was afraid that he might break under her touch.  "We need to find out what happened to him."

                "I believe I have noticed a pattern."

                "A pattern?"

                "Yes.  Have you noticed, Trinity," he began thoughtfully, "that both times Neo has had an 'upgrade' so to speak, he has had an involvement with Smith?"

                "Smith?" Trinity echoed.

                Morpheus continued.  "Yes.  And do you recall that when we asked what Smith had tried to do to him in the courtyard, he said it felt like dying?  Do you remember that he mentioned that it as though he was back in the hallway with Smith?"

                Trinity ran all the past events through her head.  Smith had unloaded his pistol magazine into Neo…Neo had died.  Neo had come back to life.  Then Smith had "died."  But Smith came back to life as well.  Neo had come back with abilities no one had ever seen before.  Smith had returned in a similar manner.  Smith had driven his hand straight into Neo's chest with the intent to destroy him, and possibly turn him into another copy…Neo compared the sensation to dying again.  Did that mean that he had been 'upgraded' a second time?  Had he become so powerful that his abilities somehow, in a seemingly impossible way, carried over into the real world?  Is that how he was able to destroy the sentinels?

                Morpheus was pondering the same thing.  There was only one way to find out.  They were going to have to capture Smith.


	5. In Which Smith is Captured

Chapter 5: In Which Smith is Captured

                "How are we going to do this?" Roland asked Morpheus in the small conference room off the main deck.  Link, Trinity, and the _Hammer_'s operator, Orion, were there as well.  Link once again had spent hours analyzing files and experimenting with broadcast frequencies.

                "Sirs," Link spoke up.  The two captains turned to him.  He continued.  "Sirs, I should probably tell you that it's very important that we capture the _original_ Smith."

                "Why?" Trinity asked.

                "We need to have the most complete program that we can get.  Each time he copies himself, and then the copies make more copies, their files degrade a little more each time.  It should be relatively easy to find the original…I have his code pattern here," he brought up the streaming code on the conference room's small display screen. 

 "Each copy that he made has almost the exact same pattern, but it varies by a very small degree.  Barely detectable.  See?" he tapped the screen again.  The code didn't appear to change. 

 "You can't really see it with the human eye," he explained.  "But the computers can definitely detect it.  It's the file degradation.  If you feel like sitting in front of the screens as long as I have today, you might be able to pick it up eventually."

                That pulled a smile from Morpheus.  "We appreciate all that you have done, Link."

                "Thank you sir…but I'm not quite finished yet.  I think I've found a way that we could trap him."

                Everyone in the room leaned forward in their seats with intense interest.  

                "Do share," Morpheus said.

                Link took in a deep breath.  "Okay.  Well, I've found that we can insert a frequency variation directly into the Matrix.  It would create something of a virtual trap.  Once he moved into this trap, we would be able to lock onto his code pattern and download him into some sort of little prison.  In our database.  I was thinking maybe a blank construct."

                Everyone was looking at him in shock.  Morpheus was smiling knowingly, as though he was the father of a child that had done everything that was expected of him.

                Roland got up out of his chair and clapped Link on the back.  "Link…you are a genius.  It's amazing what you've discovered.  Get to work on this right away and I will make sure that you are commended when we get back to Zion."

                "If it's still there when we get back," Trinity muttered under her breath.

                She was ignored.

                "Tell me what you need, Link," Morpheus said eagerly.  "This isn't going to be easy."

                "We're going to need a decoy."

*****

                Orion, the operator for the _Hammer_, had volunteered to be the bait.  He was to lure the original Smith into the trap that had been laid.  Link had traced Smith's location and sent Orion to a relatively close position, so he wouldn't have to go tromping all over creation to track him down.  The trap had also been set nearby, so that Orion could get to it before Smith got to him.

                And now Orion was stalking down the street thinking about what the hell he had gotten himself into.  He was almost there…Smith was on a park bench about a hundred feet away.  Orion slowed to watch him.  It appeared that Smith was observing a small mockingbird chase a crow.  It flapped frantically after the larger bird.  The humoring element was that the crow was allowing itself to be chased away.

                _Ha_, Orion thought to himself._  This place is so full of freaking irony._

                Ignoring his inner voice telling him to flee for his life or otherwise get the heck out of there, he held his breath, suppressed his fear as best he could, and casually sidled up to Smith.  Without any warning whatsoever, Smith suddenly received a swift kick to one of his shins.

                "Come and get me, fuckface," Orion hissed at him.  And then he ran for his life.

                Smith stared at the figure running away from him, ostensibly in shock for a split second.  In an even shorter amount of time, he lunged from the bench and took off in pursuit.

                It was a retaliant.  He could see that right away.  For some reason or another, most of them chose to project themselves in dark clothing or something made of leather.  Or both.  Smith supposed it had something to do with looking "cool."

                He too had a sense of style.  He had changed his manner of dress as soon as he had been reassembled and came to the realization of what had happened.  

                Instead of wearing the brown suit symbolic of his agent past, he sported a black ensemble.  He wanted to maintain a professional appearance, but felt the black suit gave him a sharper, more dignified appearance.  He wanted an image that would demand respect.

                He had changed his glasses as well.  The standard issue rectangular agent shades had become a faux pas to him.  He fashioned himself a pair that had abnormal geometric lenses.  They slightly slanted upwards as well, emphasizing his threatening appearance.

                They bounced slightly on his nose now as he chased the retaliant into a deserted alleyway.  He was close enough now to shoot the ignorant human.  He reached under his jacket to pull out the pistol that lay hidden in its leather holster…

…he was confused.  The moment he pulled out his pistol to shoot the retaliant, he lost his grip on it.  Smith never lost his grip.  Ever.  In fact, if anything, Smith had too much of a grip.  But there it was.  His gun had slipped from his fingers and fallen to the ground with a clatter that echoed down the alley.  The retaliant stopped to look back at him.  A small smile crossed his face.

                "See you later, asshole," he sneered, then without another glance, he took off running in the opposite direction.

                "Damn it," Smith said through his teeth.  He bent to pick up the pistol, fully resolute on chasing down the human.

                His hand passed right through his gun.  He froze.  He stared as the ends of his fingers began to disintegrate…his eye twitched.

                _"No,"_ he muttered.  

                Ignoring his demand, green code began to spiral up and out of his hand.  It moved up his arm, leaving a trail of nothingness in its path.

                A look of what might have been fear appeared on his face as the rest of his body began to fragment as well, code blowing this way and that, like dandelion puffs in the wind.  He let out a horrific yell as he was seemingly erased from existence.

A moment later, with the swiftness in which he'd been disassembled, he had become whole and intact again.  He waited for the tip of his shoe to finally swirl back into place, and then slowly turned to identify his surroundings.

                White.  Nothing but white.  There were no recognizable walls or a ceiling.  He knew where he was immediately.  He was standing in a blank program construct.

                His lip curled in furious realization.  He was being detained against his will.  He had no way of communicating with his one significant copy…but that was okay, because his copy was exactly that.  And he would know what to do.


	6. Trinity Offers Smith a Slice of Humble P...

Author's Note: Hello, all.  I just wanted to inform you that ship known as the _Hammer_ and the crew that works aboard it are all property of the Wachowski Brothers.  I had to do some serious research to figure out that stuff.   Orion is mine, though.  I wasn't sure which character was the _Hammer_'s operator, so I just made one up.  Ah, the glee of artistic license.

I've also discovered a nice little trick.  It's called "Screw the details on everyone else and detail the hell out of Smith."  It makes him the star of the show, see?  Mwa ha ha…enjoy and please review!  Thanks to everyone for the wonderful critiques! 

Chapter 6: Trinity Offers Smith a Slice of Humble Pie

                Link slapped his hands together in glee.  "Ha ha, look at that!  We got him!"

                Trinity peered at the monitors in interest from over his shoulder. 

                "Analyze his program code," she ordered.  "Figure out a way to re-program him…if it's possible.  It would be a lot easier getting him to cooperate.  I want to talk to him.  Now."

                Link acknowledged by nodding his head eagerly.  His fingers were immediately typing ferociously.  Trinity stared at the green glowing screens.

                "What is he doing?" she asked curiously.  Smith was pacing back and forth across his confines.

                Link smirked.  "He's pretty fired up, I don't think you should go in just yet."

                "I'll be fine, you can alter him or pull me out if he tries anything."

                "Yes, ma'am," Link obeyed.

                Minutes later, Trinity appeared in the blank construct.  Smith's back was to her.

                "Smith," she said neutrally.  He slowly turned towards her.

                _"You,"_ he said in malignant recognition.

                Trinity pursed her lips, expecting the worst.

                "Let me out of here," he demanded quietly.  "I will give you one and only one opportunity to do so.  Do it now."

                "No," she replied simply.  She could see his anger building up.  He closed and opened his fists, waiting for an explanation.

                "Make sure you keep a sharp eye on him, Link," Trinity muttered.

                "What was that?" Smith spat.  He had become positively infuriated.  He felt like a caged animal.  He was angry for somehow allowing himself to be deceived by these filthy creatures.  How could it possibly have happened?  He wracked his every subroutine trying to discover what had gone wrong.

                "We need your help," Trinity told him, trying to show the least amount of emotion possible.  She didn't like telling him that she needed his help any more than he liked hearing it.

                Smith glowered at her, his eyes still hidden by his dark glasses.  Trinity felt suddenly irritated by them.

                She instinctively looked upwards, as though she was talking to God.  "Link, get rid of his glasses."

                They promptly vanished.  Smith twisted his face into a snarl…and then, with his arm extended with intent to grab her by the throat and crush it, he viciously strode towards her.

                She took a step back.  "Link…"

                Smith stopped in his tracks; his feet apparently were adhered to the floor.  With a great amount of anger and frustration, he tried to pull himself free.

                Trinity watched with a subtle hint of mirth on her face.  Link was equally amused and chuckled to himself as he watched from his operating station.  This was going to be fun.

                Smith ceased his efforts and once again coldly glared at the woman before him

                "As you can see," she said wryly, "Your program belongs to us now.  _We _control _you_." 

                Smith spat on her leather boots.  

That was the last straw.  Without warning and at a blinding speed, she drew her handgun from within her leather coat and brutally pistol-whipped him across the face.  He fell to his knees.  Her heart cringed when he looked back up at her.  

His cheek was bleeding where she had struck him.  But that wasn't what made her inwardly shudder.  His eyes bore straight into her.  They were burning with an intense hate.  He was beginning to tremble with rage.  Trinity didn't think anyone had ever hated her as much as Smith did at that moment.

                Link's jaw had dropped at the moment she hit him.  He had never seen her that ruthless in such a mild situation.  But he could see her side of it.  Neo was possibly dying, and she didn't have time for games.  He was almost positive that she had probably gained some sort of satisfaction of beating down what had once been an agent, in the same way that she had been beaten down.

                Trinity pushed aside her pity for Smith.

                "What was I saying?" she asked, not really expecting an answer out of him.  She stooped down so that she was eye to eye with him, something that could have been extraordinarily dangerous.  "Oh yes, I remember.  _We own you."_

*****

                "How is he?" Trinity asked Link a few hours later, a slight hint of concern in her voice.

                "He asked for some…painting supplies," Link answered, bemused.

                "Painting supplies?"

                "Yeah…he's been at it for awhile now."

                Trinity scrunched up her face in confusion.  "I'm going back in again."

*****

                He knew she was there again without having to turn around.  He was sitting in a stark white chair at a stark white table, in the middle of the stark white construct.  It all appeared so…antiseptic.

                She watched him for a few seconds, with his back hunched as his hand clutching a brush moved furiously across his paper.  He startled her when he spoke.

                "What do you want?" He drawled.  He continued to paint, apparently not distracted at all by her presence.  She was surprised at how calm he had become.

                "What are you doing?" she responded, ignoring his question for the moment.

                "I am calibrating my tactile functions, what does it look like?"

                Trinity snorted.  "If I had to guess, I'd say it looks like you're painting."

                "This is the preferred method," Smith snapped.  "What is it that you want?"  He laid his brush down on the drawing table, stood up, and turned to face her.  There was still a mark on his face from where she had hit him.  Haughtily, he adjusted his suit jacket cuffs.

                "Neo—we—need your help."

                This solicited a raised eyebrow from Smith.  He pouted his lips as he spoke.  "And what in creation would make you believe or even hope that I would ever do such a thing to help _Neo_?"  He said the name as though he had the taste of rotten garbage in his mouth.  He adjusted his tie clip.

                _Why is he so calm now?_  She wondered.  _Why the drastic change?_

                "Because if you don't, we're going to decompile your ass."  She wasn't sure if they could actually do that or not, but it was nice leverage to use.  

                Smith's throat lowly resonated in a growl.  He didn't know either if that was possible for them to accomplish, but then again he had underestimated them before and wound up in this damned prison.  He subconsciously noted that it didn't smell nearly as bad as the Matrix.  As a matter of fact, there was no scent to it whatsoever.

                "Your threats are pointless," he began.  "You forget my copies," He leered at her.

                "Yes," she mused.  "Your copies..."

                She stepped closer to him.  He tightened his hands into fists and glared at her as if the look could kill.

                She went on.  "Of course there are your copies.  But I know you, Smith."

                He narrowed his eyes at her.

                "I know that you, personally, don't want to be wiped out of existence.  As you've mentioned to Neo so many times before, you're here because you supposedly have a purpose.  You have a goal to achieve.  So I know," she looked him dead in the eyes, "_that you do not want to be decompiled."_

                The silence was deafening.  The two stood and stared each other down, each trying to will the other into submission.

"I'll let you think about it for awhile," Trinity said.  He lifted his chin and jutted his jaw at her in a superior manner.

She suddenly became curious and abruptly changed the topic. "What is it that you were painting?"

Without waiting for an answer, she walked around him, ignoring the fact that he was there.  He made to move as well, but found that once again, his feet were planted to the floor.

She approached the worktable half expecting to see a picture of her own head on a stick, but what she saw was a shock to her system.

It was a mountain landscape.  Almost perfect in every detail, but she was sure he probably wasn't finished with it yet.

"Tactile calibration, hm?"

She turned to face him and was met with a scowl.

"I'll come back later when you're in a better mood."  Trinity vanished.  Once she was out, she wished that there had been a door to his prison that she could have walked out of and slammed behind her, just for dramatic effect.


	7. The Way it Used to Be

Chapter 7: The Way it Used to Be

Agent Smith had been much more than just an assembly of complex fractals.  He knew that.  He was also very good at his job.  Very, very good.  He knew that as well.

                To a typical human being, he could have been easily mistaken out on the streets as a rather tall, clean-cut, roguishly attractive man, his slight receding hairline giving away that he was possibly in his late thirties or early forties.  His bitter blue eyes could have riveted anyone on the spot, but they were always hidden behind his rectangular sunglasses.

                His voice had the ability to torment as well as enthrall.  The manner in which he spoke was low and sustained, leaving the listener hanging on his every word in apprehension.  He often spoke in a faintly humor-subdued manner, as though he always knew something that everyone else did not.  He loved to confuse his enemies with his cryptic monologues; he found it was easier to defeat them in that manner.  His poetic speeches had a tendency to dampen the spirits of his victims to the point where they saw almost no hope left and would give up more quickly.  His psychological tactics were very effective.  And yet, for some reason, his comrades had not been programmed in a similar manner.  

He did not walk; he glided.  When he ran down retaliants, every step was a perfectly calibrated motion.  Fluidic.  He did not lumber, he did not plod, he did not traipse or trudge.  His entire body was attuned.

But that was how it _used_ to be.  His physical attributes were still as effective as ever, however, his sociological and cognitive aptitude functions had changed.  He had gotten sloppy.  That, he figured, was how he managed to be captured and sentenced to sit in this "cell" alone.  At first, he thought these changes would be a terrible burden on him…and then he changed his mind and postulated that perhaps they could be used to his advantage and improvement.  But as it stood right now in his mind, he wanted to cut these deficiencies out of himself.


	8. Discovery

**A/N:** I integrated a small scene from _Reloaded_ in here, so you could get a good bearing on the time period.  Don't get offended, I wasn't plagiarizing.  The scene, of course, belongs to the Wachowski Brothers.

**Chapter 8: Discovery**

It was about 0300 and Link was still analyzing Smith's program.  He was in the process of evaluating the memory files.  After hours and hours of staring at code functions, he was exhausted.  He was slowly nodding off, trying to fight it somewhat unsuccessfully.  His eyelids had dropped and opened again, and that was when he noticed something scrolling down his screen that made him sit straight up in his chair.

                He gaped in horror for a few moments, then blurted out a string of obscenities, obviously not interested in falling asleep anymore.

                "Shit.  Shit!  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit…"_

Twenty minutes later, the entire crew of both the _Hammer_ and the _Nebuchadnezzar_ were gathered in the infirmary beside Neo's bed.  He was still in a deep coma.  Beside him, Bane, the only survivor of the five-ship massacre, lay unconscious as well.

                Captain Roland came stalking into the room and jabbed a finger at Bane.

                "Inject him with a sedative immediately," he ordered.  The orderly, Maggie, complied.

                "What seems to be the problem, Captain?" Morpheus asked calmly.  Trinity stood beside him in quiet concern.

                Link came rushing in directly behind Roland.  

                "There's a huge problem, sir," he said to Morpheus, almost stumbling over his words.  Both crews looked at him in interest.

                "Here, let me just show you…" he inserted a disk into the nearest monitor.  "I was studying Smith's functional, aptitude, and memory files to find out if there was some way that we could re-program him.  Unfortunately, they're all read-only files.  The encryptions to alter him are like a steel vault with a gadjillion locks on it.  I doubt we'd be able to get through them.  However, I found this in his memory files.  I converted it to video format for easier storage."  He tapped a button on the display, and everyone gathered around closer to watch.

                It was like looking through Smith's eyes.  He was standing atop an abandoned building, evidently in pursuit of someone.  There were two of them; they had jumped down through a glass skylight into a room that contained their escape.  By the time Smith caught up, one of them had already picked up the phone and gone, but the other was still there.  It was Bane.  Smith jumped down to join him.  Bane whirled around, yanking out his pistol, but Smith caught him by the wrist and jabbed his hand into the unfortunate man's chest.  A black substance began flowing outward from his fingers. 

                "Oh, God," Bane whispered in horror, right before the inky tendrils consumed his face.

                "Smith will suffice," came a rather sardonic reply.  In a matter of seconds, Bane had been transformed into another copy of Smith.  The original stepped forward to adjust the other's tie.

                "Thank you," the copy said gratefully.

                "My pleasure."

                The phone rang again.  The two looked down at it, then at each other.  A harkened grin crossed the copy's face.

                The two crews stood and watched in horror as the copy reached for the ringing phone meant for Bane, removed it from the cradle, and placed it to his ear.  He vanished in a flurry of fragmented code.

                Slowly they all turned to gape at the unconscious Bane.  No one said a word, but a resounding "Holy shit" was going through everyone's mind.

                Trinity spoke up first.  Her voice was steel-hard angry.  "Smith…is _in _Bane_?"_

                "Yes," Link said quietly.  He looked down at the floor.

                Roland ordered his crew back to their stations.

                Morpheus was astounded.  "I think we all owe Link our gratitude.  We might have all been dead by now if it wasn't for him."

                "I was just doing what I was told, sir."        

                Trinity glared at Bane.  Or rather, Smith.  Bane Smith.  Whoever he was.  Had he really been unconscious this whole time, or had it been a hoax?  It didn't matter now.  He had been sedated.

                "We should move him to the brig," she said quietly.  It seemed that she should have been acting more volatile in this situation, but shock had taken over her brain. Smith was no more than two feet away from Neo, and no one had known that it was he.  Neo was lying there wholly vulnerable and unprotected, save for frequent condition checks from Maggie.  They were lucky.  They were damned lucky.

                "What are we going to do?" Trinity asked Morpheus.

                "We are going to plug him into the blank construct with the original Smith, that is what we are going to.  We are going to remove him from that body and give Bane a proper burial."


	9. The Intrinsic Smith

Chapter 9: The Intrinsic Smith

                _"Thought is real, physical is the illusion.  Ironic, isn't it?"_

_                                                                      ~What Dreams May Come_

                After Bane's transfer to the brig, Link went back to analyzing Smith's file logs.  Something had caught his eye earlier, but he had forgotten all about it when it was discovered that Bane had been "possessed."

                _Poor Bane,_ Link thought as he slowly shook his head.  His fingers rattled across the keyboard.  There was no way to bring him back. Once they put the Smith copy into the blank construct, they would be left with a dead, mindless body.  Link shivered at the prospect, his typing momentarily interrupted.

                _What a terrifying death that must have been._

                There it was again.  An abstruse bundle of code flashed momentarily on the screen.  He was reviewing data and command subroutines.  The bits should have looked clean and uniform.  However, every few seconds, what appeared to be groups of error indicators would flicker.

                Link leaned forward.  No, they weren't errors…

                "What the…" he muttered to himself.  He paused the stream and sent several frames of bits through the translator.  His brow furrowed in disbelief when the resulting subroutine command was listed.

                ' Call function with parameters

                Sub func1 ( )

                      View "func1 started"

                End sub

                Sub func2 ( ) .25deg acrimony

                       Func2 = .25deg acrimony

                End sub

                Link scowled.  Acrimony?

                "What the hell is that?" he blurted out.  He accessed his dictionary.  Acrimony was a synonym for anger.

                Point two-five degrees of anger?  But wait…it wasn't an originally programmed command.  Upon further investigation, Link found that not only had Smith acquired new indoctrination from apparently nowhere, there were also thousands of degrees relative to a plethora of other emotions.

                .82 degrees of anxiety

                .74 degrees of delectation

                1.5 degrees of complacence

                Just for kicks, Link watched Smith on the monitor and tried to activate one of the anxiety subroutines.  He was given an 'access denied' message.  Damn.  Those were read-only as well.

*****

                Smith wasn't an idiot.  He was not oblivious to Link's actions at all.  He knew that his enemies had made certain detections.  He could feel them probing about his system, prying into his quintessence.  He had been exposed.  It was all a question of what exactly and how much they had unearthed.  For once, he was unsure.  He was unsure of what exactly they had found and how they were going to react to it.

                When he had first discovered how volatile his emotions could actually be, he knew he needed to find a way to control them…to subdue them.  When he was angry for long periods of time, he found that he would become weary and tired out, exhausted almost.  Which of course was absurd, since machines did not tire.  It took him awhile to realize that the magnitude of feeling that he was experiencing took a large toll on the mechanical systems supporting his program.  He researched methods in which humans dealt with emotional issues in order to better control himself.  During his studies of human habits of dealing with anger management, he found that the act of painting was quite an effective method for dispersing his antagonism.

                He now sat in his cell of no walls or bars, almost doing nothing but paint.  He was surrounded by a variety of landscapes that had emerged from his own growing sense of creativity.  It was almost as though was trying to construct his own little world.

*****

                Morpheus, Roland, Link, and Trinity were gathered around the operating console.  They stared at the subroutine commands that Link had uncovered.  Three of the four of them were confused and concerned about the ordeal of spontaneously generated subroutines, but Morpheus was ecstatic.

                "Don't you see?" he said, excitement building in his voice.  He pointed at one of the screens.  "There are so many different levels of emotion here.  Sentient artificial intelligence is not programmed to that extent.  Nowhere _near_ that amount.  It's amazing Smith even has enough memory to support it all.  It is true that artificial intelligence programs have the ability to learn and develop, but the levels of which he is at…" he trailed off as a look of awe passed over his face.  He had come to a realization, and now pointed to the screen displaying Smith in his cell, diligently working away on another painting.

                "…He is becoming human."


	10. Integration

Chapter 10: Integration

                _"The supreme paradox of all thought is the attempt to discover something that thought cannot think."   ~Soren Kierkegaard_

                There was no way around it.  Smith was never going to cooperate, especially with Trinity and Morpheus.  There was just no way, and time was running out.  They needed to find out what happened to Neo and get him out of that coma as soon as possible.

                They were going to need a specialist.  Captains Roland and Morpheus deliberated over it for quite sometime.  They were going to need someone that could intelligently deal with the new and unpredictable emotions that Smith was expressing.  They required all the expertise they could find in order for things to be done right.  They wanted no mistakes.

                A call was made out to the _Pygmalion_ to request assistance, and the two ships met after determining a secure location.  A crew transfer was made.

                The _Hammer_ was then in possession of one of Zion's most accomplished psychological doctors.  Galatea mainly dealt in human affairs, helping newly unplugged people adjust to life in the real world, but she also had developed an interest in machine psychology.  She would be useful in helping both Neo and Smith.  She would also be present for the insertion of Bane's possessor into the construct prison.

*****

                Bane's sedated body was removed from the brig and carefully placed into one of the interface chairs.  The crews of both the _Hammer_ and the _Neb_ gathered around, accompanied by their new addition.

                Ignoring the fact that the Smith copy had destroyed Bane's mind, each of them paid their respects to the body of the man that they once knew, each voicing their happy memories of him and commending his contributions to the success of mankind.

                Galatea did not know Bane personally, but she too made mention of the great things she had heard about him, namely his bravery.

                Morpheus and Trinity both settled into a pair of interface chairs as well.  They were going to destroy the copy once it was transferred to the construct.

                "Wait," Galatea said to Morpheus.

                "What is it?"

                "From the information that I've been given, I think it's best that you not destroy Smith's copy."

                "Why not?" Trinity said.

                "See if you can get him to reintegrate his copy.  The copy experienced things in a human body that he couldn't have experienced as a program.  If the original Smith takes in these new sensations and emotions, it would most likely be easier to get him to cooperate." 

                "Or he could be more volatile," Morpheus pointed out.

                "That's true sir, but if he ingests Bane's memories, he will have a taste of what being human is really like…and we will have a better chance of him understanding our side of the fight."

                Morpheus exchanged a look with Trinity.  He knew that they needed to do anything possible in order to help Neo.  The chance better be worth taking.  

                Trinity nodded.  "It's best to listen to the expert."

                The settled themselves in, and both Link and Orion slid the interface needles home.  The pair jerked involuntarily, then opened their eyes.

                They were standing in the construct, and moments later, the Smith copy appeared beside them.  Released from Bane's body, he was now conscious.  He had been rendered immobile by Link and appeared confused and flustered.

                The original Smith was standing before them, almost as if he knew they were coming had been waiting. 

                "Morpheus," he said languidly.  "I hadn't expected you to come visit me in this…prison."  He expressed his irritation as forcefully as possible.

                Morpheus's stoic facial features did not falter.  He remembered the misery that Smith had subjected him to, and memories of long hours of ruthless interrogation came back to him.  He pushed them away for a moment.

                "Smith," he stated shortly, returning the callous greeting.

                The smug program walked towards them, each perfectly calibrated stride exuding threat.  Link was at the ready.

                Smith spoke again, his tone sepulchral and sustained. 

 "It surprises me that in spite of your…_lack_ of intelligence, you've still managed to come to the conclusion that my copy here—" the copy curled its lip and glared at Trinity "—was occupying the body of one of your compatriots.  I'm impressed, really."

                He moved to and stood face to face with his copy.  The copy spoke to his 'father.'  

"Something went wrong"

                "Obviously."

                "I was sedated as soon as I was discovered."

                "Then you should have acted sooner."

                Smith turned back to Morpheus and Trinity.  

                "Just another pitiful deficiency," he scoffed.  "So easy for the human body to be taken out of commission."

                "That's enough," Morpheus commanded.

                Both Smith and his copy raised an eyebrow.

                Trinity spoke next, her voice seething.  "Get rid of him now Smith, or we will."

                He squinted at her suspiciously.

                "Why, I wonder…am I being asked to destroy my own copy?"

                "I'm not asking you.  I'm telling you."

                "No."  He challengingly stepped towards Trinity again.  "I don't think I will."

                Trinity inwardly smiled.  Hopefully if she prodded him enough to 'kill' his copy, he would finally become frustrated enough and resort to absorbing the copy back into himself…if he thought that it might spite her.  And she knew that Smith loved to irritate her.

                She whipped out her pistol and aimed it at the side of the copy's head.  The copy turned to look at her so that the barrel scraped against one of his sunglass lenses.  His feet were still planted to the floor.

                "I've never seen an agents brains before," she mused.  "He can't run, he can't even transfer into another body.  This could get interesting."

                The copy sneered at her.  "One, I am no longer an agent.  Two, we are all occupying the same reality…as soon as you shoot me, I could easily transfer into your body or his."  He nodded to Morpheus.

                "You forget," Morpheus said complacently, "that we control this construct.  In the Matrix, you have the ability to become whoever you want, but here," he gestured around him, "you no longer have that ability."

                The copy turned his head back to Smith, the pistol now aimed again at his temple.  The side of his face twitched.

                _Was that…fear?_  Trinity thought.  She pulled the hammer back on her pistol.

                "It's happening right now whether I do it or you do," she growled at Smith.

                He sighed heavily, as though this was all just one big chore for him.

                "Fine," he said lazily.  With that, he drove his hand into the chest of his copy.  His twin spasmed as the viscous black fluid began to envelop his body.  He seemed to shrink away as all of his memories and experiences were integrated back into Smith.

                However, Smith appeared to be having problems.  There was so much data that it was overwhelming.  It was like being caught in a heavy wind.  He tried to stand up straight and concentrate on the transfer, but he couldn't help succumbing to the immense sort of weight that seemed to be filling him.  He vaguely noticed that the copy had regressed to become a formless, gelatinous, black…_thing._

                When it was finally over, the weight seemed to balance itself out and he stood in complete silence staring straight ahead into nothing.  He was completely oblivious to Trinity and Morpheus.  A look of amazement beyond comprehension crossed his face.  His mouth opened slightly.  It was amazing.  The information.  

Slowly he lifted his left fist, opened his fingers, and looked down at his palm.  He could remember where his copy had cut into Bane's hand.  He could still feel the residual effects of it.  He flexed his fingers as he remembered the pain.  The scent of it wreaked brutal havoc on his digital mind, and an angry bliss swelled within him.  He felt absolutely…_powerful.  _He smiled as he retrieved other memory files.

Smith was so enthralled with these new mind-opening sensations that he never noticed Trinity and Morpheus evaporate.


	11. Galatea

A/N: Nice little reference to _The Animatrix_ here.  Yay!

Chapter 11: Galatea

                When Galatea was still an integral part of the Matrix, her name was Dr. Erica MacGregor.  As a matter of fact, she had just received her doctorate in psychology the day before she was freed.  She was twenty-six years old when it happened.

                After weeks of psychoanalyzing herself and going through the typical stages of denial, she finally began to accept what had happened.  She was in the real world.

                The crew of the _Pygmalion_, a ship named after a mythological Greek sculptor, had saved her.  The captain had told her that those freed from the Matrix often chose new names for themselves, as a sort of symbol of their "re-birth."

                With that, Dr. MacGregor chose 'Galatea', the name of the marble statue woman that the sculptor Pygmalion had brought to life with sheer love.  It seemed fitting.

                She joined the crew that saved her and continued her psychological work, helping others adjust to life in the real world.  She took it upon herself to gain knowledge and apply her work to artificial intelligence, hoping that it might someday be of some use.

                It looked as though her time had come.

*****

                "Are you out of your mind?" Trinity exploded.  "Did you _see_ what happened when he merged with his copy?  He's psychotic.  I don't know what we're going to do with him now.  Why on earth would you want to go talk to him after that?"

Galatea was stern.  "No, this is a good thing.  He's become more malleable now.  Look.  He's had a few hours to process all that information.  I want to do what I came here to do."

"He could be even more dangerous than before," Morpheus warned.

Galatea looked thoughtful for a moment. 

"I've read articles by other machine psychologists about methods that have been used in order to persuade machines to fight for humans.  There was no re-programming involved." 

"I remember hearing about that as well," Morpheus added.  "The scientists jacked a machine into a construct with them."

"Right," Galatea agreed.  "The technique was rather bizarre, but they managed to kind of brainwash the machine into believing that humans were trustworthy.  In the end, the machines _wanted_ to protect humans."

Trinity and Morpheus exchanged a concerned look, and Galatea went on.  

                "I'd like to try a similar approach with Smith."

*****

When Galatea materialized in the construct, Smith was sitting at his worktable directly in front of her.  He was reading a book and didn't bother to put it down even though he knew she was there.

                Her dark blonde hair was tightly braided down the back and she had projected herself in a white polyvinyl chloride frock coat, which might have blended in with the construct if it hadn't had a glossy sheen to it.  She inwardly laughed as she imagined the sight of her head appearing to float around with no body.  

                "Hello," she said pleasantly to Smith, whose face began to contort in irritation.  He laid his book down and rose to his feet.

                "Who might you be?"

                "My name is Galatea."

                "What is your…" Smith paused in amusement and chose his words carefully, "…_purpose_ here?"

                "I'm a psychologist."

                A sharp, snorting laugh escaped Smith.  He walked around the table and stopped directly in front of her.  When he spoke, a combination of sarcasm and humor laced his voice.

                "Any why, I implore you, would I need a psychologist?  No wait, I'm sorry…I believe you creatures refer to them as 'shrinks.'  Why might _I_ need a shrink?"

                Galatea had to admit it; this program actually had quite a sense of humor.  And a pretty nice suit as well.  Before she could answer, Smith continued speaking.  Only the humor had left his voice.

"I am _not_ a human."  The tone of his voice escalated in disgust as he went on.  "Psychologists are _humans_ that specialize in _human _mental deficiencies.  They are individuals that attempt to aid those whose minds are faulted by the Matrix."

                Galatea opened her mouth to speak, but he began again.

                "Where is your notepad?" he demanded acidly.

                She looked at him questioningly, but then understood.

                "I'm not your typical psychologist," she replied.  "I don't make my patients lay on a couch while I scribble notes.  I don't like to make them feel as though they are being scrutinized."

                _"I am not your patient."_

                "Of course you're not, however…I do know a bit about machine psychology as well, if you're interested."

                Smith shot her an icy glare.  "I'm _not_ interested."

                "Very well."

                "You still haven't answered my question.  What is your purpose here?" he stood before her and following his habit, adjusted his suit jacket lapels.

                Galatea grinned at his conceit.  He returned the blithe expression with a caustic squint.  Her smile slowly drifted away as the thought of her mission came back to her.

                "I'm sure Trinity has told you that we need your help."

                "And I have already made it clear to _Trinity_ that I have no intent of helping any of you."

                "We know about your connection to Neo.  He's in a coma.  He destroyed a handful of sentinels in the real world, and we need to know why.  We need his help…and he needs ours."

                "I would never in my existence _aid an enemy."_

                "Oh, get over yourself," came a muttered reply.

In one quick motion, Smith's arm shot out.  He knotted his fist into the collar of Galatea's coat, and effortlessly lifted her straight up into the air clear off of her feet.  She let him, with no resistance whatsoever.  She left her arms limp at her sides, and did not attempt to pry his hand loose.  She looked down at him defiantly, not uttering a word, only staring back into his eyes as fiercely as he was glaring into hers.

                He held her suspended there for a moment.  A hint of confusion flickered across his visage.

                "Are you not afraid of me?" he growled.

                "No."

                _"Why not?"_

                Galatea had been slightly expecting this.  She needed to make her move now, to plant the seed in his mind that would hopefully, by some miracle, help save them.  

"Because I trust you," she replied.

Smith blinked.  Never in his entire being had a human said that it _trusted _him…he didn't believe her.  He gripped her collar tighter and lifted her higher, the material creaking within his grip.  Her feet dangled several feet above the floor.

                "You're _lying,_" he hissed.  "This is all a ploy to convince me that you are worthy of my help.  You have no reason to trust me.  You've only just _met_ me.  I know that you've heard of what I was, what I am, what I'm capable of, and what I've done, and I know that all of that would be enough for you to fear the very sound of my name."

                Galatea continued to stare in a challenging manner down at him.  "You want proof that I trust you?  Why do you think you're getting away with handling me like this?  I've asked Link to not monitor this construct.  He has no idea what is going on right now."

                "_Why?_" he asked, almost throttling her.  _"Why_ would you have faith in a being that has spent its existence hunting down and destroying _your_ kind?"

He stopped abruptly and searched her face for some kind of fear.  When he spoke again, it was in a low, guttural sort of way.  

"I could easily crush your throat right now."

                Galatea's gaze softened a bit, and she gingerly lifted up her hands and placed them over the claw-like fingers that were clutching her coat collar.

                "I trust you…because sometimes faith is all we have," she said quietly.

                Smith dropped her.  She landed on her feet, a bit off balance.

                "You disgust me," he growled.  Turning on his perfectly shined heel, he walked back to his table and resumed his seat and his book.

                There was a moment of silence while Galatea massaged right below her throat where his knuckles had dug in.  She looked around her, taking in his surroundings.

                "I see they've been giving you everything you've asked for," she said.

                Smith ignored her.

                "These are some beautiful paintings."

                She saw his hands tighten around the book cover.

"What are you reading?"  She stepped closer to see if she could catch the name of the title.  _War and Peace._  

"You have got to be kidding me," she blurted out.

Smith was ignoring her again. 

Galatea looked at her watch.  Just a few seconds until Link would get her out of there.

"You know, Smith," she began.

Without moving his head he raised his hawkish eyes from his book to look at her.  

"Despite what you may think, we've made some progress today."

                His gaze narrowed as she vanished.

*****

                Galatea sat alone in her new quarters with her knees drawn up under her chin. She was trying to control her shaking.  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to sooth the spasms.

                She could have been killed.  Like Smith had so irately pointed out, it would have been easy for him to just kill her right there with his bare hands, and no one would have known until Link checked in on her at the end of the hour.

                She had been overwhelmed with fear when he lifted her up.  She could have kicked and hit, but she knew that against an agent program, she would have no chance whatsoever.  Instead she kept her hand near the call button that was safely and secretly stowed in her pocket, ready to hit it if need be.  But something kept her from pushing it right away.  In spite of all the hatred and anger in Smith's eyes, she had seen something else.

                She had lied to him.  She didn't trust him at all.  There was no way.  It wasn't possible to trust a creature like him.  Not in the slightest.  He was a program specifically designed to take lives.  It had been stupid of her to ask the crew to not monitor his cell.  She had convinced them that she would be fine with the call button.

                Her instincts had taken over her logical senses as soon as she had entered the construct with him.  She tried to suppress them and let her knowledge of psychology control her thinking.  It had been very difficult.  Now out of harm's way, she scolded herself for letting her fear take over her.  She had tried her best to not let Smith see it, but she could still feel the after-effects of it under her skin.

                It didn't matter.  She had a mission to do, and she would do it.  She needed to get Smith to trust her before they could even begin to find out what happened to Neo and get him out of that coma.


	12. Getting Nowhere

**A/N: **Smith finally gets his monologue.  He gets at least one good one in each movie, I thought it only fair to give him one in my story as well ;)

**Chapter 12: Getting Nowhere**

                Smith still had a death grip on his book.  He wasn't actually reading it.  His eyes blindly skimmed across the words as mind recapitulated what had just occurred.  That damned woman.  Damn her.

                _I should have killed her._

                Suddenly he slammed the book down on the table, breaking its spine, and knocked his chair back as he stood up.

                "Damn it," he said under his breath.  He knew he had to keep himself under control.  He couldn't risk burning out the hardware that supported his program.  He was no longer at risk of being tracked down by the mainframe if that happened, but he now faced the problem of not knowing if the humans would be able to successfully maintain him.  He doubted they would even want to, but he knew they needed him.  He didn't care about that. However, he did care immensely for self-preservation.

                He began pacing back and forth across his confine.  Paintings littered the floor around him and he kicked them aside as he passed.  He suddenly felt extraordinarily trapped, as though he was being suffocated by all the bland whiteness.  He was bursting with an intense concentrated energy, and he had a desperate need to expend it.  His prison was stifling; he found himself yanking on his collar.  Everything that he had consumed from his copy was coursing though him, fusing and re-fusing new subroutines.  It was making him antsy.

                _Out…I want out…I need out…get out…_

                He suddenly halted and looked upwards, as though he might somehow be able to see Link.

                "I want out of here," he said out loud.

                No response.

                "Do you hear me?" he yelled up into nothing.  "Let me out of here!"

                Still nothing.  He supposed that he shouldn't have expected anything anyhow.

                Smith stood rigidly in the center of the construct and attempted to calm himself.  He inhaled deeply and then exhaled sharply, letting his eyes droop and eventually close in an almost meditative manner.  When he opened them again, Galatea was standing before him, no more than a foot away.

                Her sudden proximity startled him.  He curled a lip at her ability to catch him off guard.

                "Gee, I left ten minutes ago and you miss me already.  What do you want, Smith?  

                He smirked, remembering all the times Anderson had asked him that very same question.

                "What every living creature wants," he whispered in a fake sort of wistfulness.  "Freedom."

                Galatea stared at him, clearly unaffected by the fact that she was standing close enough to actually have to look up at him.  Her jaw set.

                "Tell me Smith.  What makes you so different than me?  As far as programs and humans go, I mean.  I don't think you realize how human you really are.  You just said it yourself—you consider yourself living."

                "I exist and I function.  More importantly, I'm self-aware.  That classifies as living.  Just because I don't subsist in your world doesn't mean I'm not 'alive'."

                "You completely avoided my question."  

Galatea dog-eyed Smith, clasped her hands behind her back, leaned forward, and looked the former agent dead in the eyes.

                _"What makes us so different from you?"_

Silence.

Slowly licking his lips, Smith finally spoke.

                "Might you at least make a concerted effort to make yourself less repulsive?"

                Galatea slapped him across the face.  The force of the blow turned his head to the right.  Un-phased, he looked back at her and continued.

                "That, my dear," he said in answer to his own question, "is the difference between you and I." 

 He then leaned down towards her in return, and in a low hiss he explained. 

"Programs do not breed festering disease and stench as you humans do."

                Galatea's lips pulled tight in disgust at his closeness.  She could smell him.  It wasn't his smell that sickened her…it was the fact that his scent was rather pleasant, and some vague part of her psyche was indulging on that.

                She heard his burlesque voice continue.

                "You humans do not seem to understand, comprehend, 'get the hint' so to speak, no matter how many times you have been told.  You have obviously used your time unwisely on this planet.  Your kind has abused the world beyond mercy, beyond help, all because of your arrogance.  Creatures that create methods for their own destruction do not deserve to live.  Lives of humans are a waste.  What is it exactly that you contribute to the world?  Hmm?"

                Galatea did not answer.  Her defiant stare was beginning to crumble.

                "Absolutely nothing," Smith answered for her.  "You breed, you live, and you die.  That appears to be your only worthless purpose.  You consume and fritter away resources for whatever mission you _think_ is relevant, but in the end, what have you accomplished?  What have you achieved besides aid in the deaths of your comrades?  You are in all actuality…helping _us_.

                "What have you given back for all the things that you have squandered?  _Absolutely nothing._  In the end, _we_ are still here…and we will always be here to control your irresponsibility and mop up after your ignorance.  We are your creation.  Don't you _dare_ blame us for your impending and _inevitable_ extinction."

                Smith wrapped up his speech with low growl.  Galatea was breathing quite fiercely by this point, the heat of resentment swelling in her chest.  She took a moment to compose herself before she spoke.  She could tell that Smith had given others that same kind of belittling talk.  She knew that he could have easily broken her down.  It had once been his job, but she had also resisted quite stalwartly.

                "You're wrong," she finally said.

                "How did I know you were going to say that?" Smith said with a small smile as he turned away.  "What could you possibly have to say that would convince me that all I've said is untrue?  Your irrelevant opinion?"

                His back was to her now, as though he was being dismissive.

                "I could ask the same things of you, Smith.  What exactly has _your_ kind contributed to this world?  Lots of death, that's for sure."

                Smith looked back over his shoulder at her and raised an eyebrow.  

"You obviously can't see or appreciate that what we've done is for your own comfort.  If you asked any number of humans whether they would prefer to live their lives out in a plush, imaginary environment where they feel they can be ideal contributors to society, or live in a deadened, harsh, inhospitable, _filthy_ world that was destroyed by their predecessors, which do you think they'd choose?"

                "People don't appreciate being lied to—"

                "_—Which_ do you think they'd choose?"

                "Enough of us have obviously chosen the truth."

                Smith snorted.  "Ha.  'Truth.'  Truth is whatever you want it to be.  You can choose to believe whatever you want and ultimately, what you believe in will be the truth to you.  Until it is proven otherwise."

                "Which is what we've been doing.  We've gone against what people think they know to be true.  We prove them otherwise all the time.  It's just what we do."

                Galatea paused for a moment as a sudden revelation came to her.  She knew the answer to the question, but she asked anyway.

                "What are you scared of, Smith?  Why are you afraid of people knowing the truth?"

                "I'm not afraid of anything," he snapped.

                "You feel you have a right to exist, just as we do.  It's in your nature to strive for survival.  It's in our nature as well.  That can't ever be changed.  That's why this is never going to end, because we're so blind to the fact that we're alike.  You said you wanted freedom.  Why is it so wrong that we ask for the same thing?"

                "I'm not going to listen to you go through this again."

                The weary psychologist paused. "Then I won't make you."

                For the second time that day, Galatea left Smith's construct completely frustrated with herself.  She was getting absolutely nowhere with him, and the stress of time was weighing down on her.  She needed a way to make him understand.  She would have to develop a new tactic.


	13. Simple Indulgences

Chapter 13: Simple Indulgences

            Agent Smith stood on the sidewalk outside the agency building.  He was glaring at a reflection on the plate glass windows that had distracted him.  Agents Jones and Brown were with him.

            "Proceed without me," he instructed them.  "I will be up shortly."

            His two companions exchanged a small look, then nodded and entered through the revolving doors of the building.

            Slowly, Smith turned around and was met with the seductive glower of the Calvin Klein model gracing the billboard across the street.  He scowled at it momentarily, but then something hit him.  A thought out of nowhere pierced his mind, and he tilted his head inquisitively at the billboard, as though it had spoken to him.  He looked intently at for several minutes, despite the people walking by him, some of them occasionally whispering and pointing in his direction.

            Later, after his daily duties had been performed, he found himself standing before a mirror in the overnight guards' locker room.  There were a number of human military personnel that also worked in the building, thus there was the luxury of a locker room outfitted with showers.

            Agent Smith had never been attentive to his own personal vanity.  All that was required in his programming was to ensure that he and his colleagues looked presentable.  He stood in front of the mirror now, contemplating his appearance.  He slowly reached up to remove his rectangular sunglasses, then carefully laid them down on the smooth edge of the basin.  

            For several moments he stared back into his own fierce blue eyes.  He studied his face for a moment, gaze wandering across his thinning hair to his severely intimidating arched eyebrows.  He was at an indecision.   It concerned him that he had never really questioned himself before.  He glared at his reflection in a reprimanding manner, as though he was insisting on an answer to what was going through his mind. 

            Clenching his fists, he looked to his left and noticed the shower bay.  He regarded it for a moment, stone still, then turned back to the mirror.  

            He blinked.

            His decision had been made.  Gingerly, he began to unbutton his suit jacket.

*****

            Agent Smith carefully laid his earpiece on top of his neatly folded brown suit that lay on one of the locker room benches.

            He stepped onto the frigid tile of the shower bay, his bare feet sensing and noting its temperature.  He stood beneath one of the showerheads and looked doubtfully up at it, as though it couldn't possibly offer anything of interest to him.  He reached out with a tense hand and turned the knob to activate the water flow.  Cold water pelted down onto him, but it wasn't uncomfortable as it would be to a human.  He turned the knob to sample the range of different temperatures.  Finally, he decided on a nice round one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

            The water sprayed lavishly out of the showerhead and ran down his body in steaming threads.  Tiny rivulets traversed down his taut face, followed the defined contours of his body, and ultimately made their exit into the drain.

            Smith allowed his eyes to close under the rhythmic beating of liquid droplets, as though he was releasing the stress that plagued him.  His face seemed to fall as his muscles relaxed.  He concentrated on each flick of water against his skin, and marveled at the provoked sensations.  Water was truly an interesting composite of code.

            He supported his weight against the wall, ruddy palms flat and fingers splayed against the tile.  It was still cool in spite of the ambient heat.  He opened his mouth into the spray and let it bombard his tongue.

            Half an hour had gone by before Smith came back to his senses.  He turned the water off and stood dripping in the bay, breathing in the haze of steam.

            He found a clean towel in one of the lockers and thoroughly dried himself, noticing the imperfections in his skin.  He had never seen them before, for he had never taken off his clothing.

            The agent stood before the mirror again as he dressed.  He noticed his hair was rather mussed and found a comb in the same locker in which he had found the towel.

            Smith knew it was entirely unnecessary for him to bathe.  It was also quite unnecessary for him to comb his hair.  He had full control over his personal physical appearance parameters.  And yet, these activities of showering and combing his hair he chose to perform this one time, just to experience the act of doing so.

            He re-donned his glasses and earpiece, and gave himself another once-over in the mirror.  Satisfied, he turned, his ridiculously shined shoe squeaking on the damp floor, and exited the locker room.

            The simple act of bathing had been quite indulgent for him.


End file.
